Weapon
by vintage quills
Summary: No one notices his frustration. No one but the slip of a girl notices.  Eventual Rayne.
1. Girl Weapon

Title: Weapon

Author: Vintage Quills

Fandom: Firefly, post-Miranda

Pairing: Jayne x River

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: Wouldn't have gotten canceled if I owned the series.

Author's Notes: C:

He can't stop looking at her. Can't stop looking at the slip of a girl, same girl that took out dozens and dozens of Reavers. Same girl, white arms, white legs, bottomless brown eyes that stare without blinking; long dresses that barely fit, sleek combat boots. Thin little bird that flew higher than any of them.

He can't stop thinking about her, and it's driving him crazy. Not the same type of crazy that rattled her brains around, mind you, because he wasn't _that_ kind of crazy. Killed him, though. Killed him to know, but not to understand, how a slip of a girl who looked like a wind could blow her over could take down an army of Reavers when he couldn't – not even with Zoe's help – how?

He sits in the kitchen, frustrated. Captain's telling some joke, and Zoe is chuckling for the first time in a while. Doc's smiling, his hand brushing Kaylee's now and then, and she's got a smile on her face that's shinier than any of the polished utensils on the table.

No one notices his frustration.

No one but the slip of a girl notices.

She sits beside him, the same spot every mealtime, and occasionally pilfers things from his plate. It's become a "thing". The crew jokes about it now and then, and he plays his part, gruff and annoyed, but of late, his heart isn't in it.

She stares at him side-ways, from behind a curtain of unkempt brown hair. Hollow eyes. Eyes that see and See – maybe it's the same thing? He doesn't understand that part, either.

He stares back at her now and then, and each time, his lips pull into a scowl and he looks away again.

The rest of the crew seems to have taken her "other personality" into stride. No one's made any big fuss over her abilities, no one's made any comments – no one's fussing over how a girl who barely weighs a hundred pounds (he guesses) can take down a gorramn army of man-eating, flesh-ripping monsters, and suffer no injuries uglier than a few bruises here and there.

When dinner is done and he's on washing duties, he realizes that it's because they feel she's no longer a girl to be protected. They've seen past her appearance, and see her as a valuable crewmember. She's not just a girl with some brain crazies anymore. Valuable crewmember. Valuable weapon.

He scrubs at a plate with unnecessary force, lips pulled into a scowl so fierce that it was in danger of becoming permanent.

She's a weapon all right, but something _dangerous_ – he isn't sure why he's the only one who sees her as such. He isn't sure why he's the only person on this boat who still watches her with wary eyes. He isn't sure why the crew see her as something valuable and something to be cherished, when all he sees is a barrel of gunpowder, liable to go off at any moment.

They can all be summed up so simply, mind you.

Mal was a captain, but just a man who loved his boat. Zoe was a warrior, but just a widow with a gun. 'Nara was riches and class, but just a quality whore. Kaylee was a mechanic genius, but just a young woman. Doc was big words and reserved thoughts, but just a lost young man.

And him? Just some big, dumb old mercenary; gun for hire, paid for muscles, not for his brain. What did that make him?

"Impressive power of the mental state is not highly valued, nor wanted, in his line of work."

He places a washed cup away, slamming the cupboard shut when he's done, and turns to fix – _whom else_ – the girl-weapon a frown.

"Don't recall askin' anyone to stay behind 'n 'sult my smarts, moonbrain."

She tilts her head, observing him with those glassy eyes. "Negative connotations were not intended behind her remarks. Merely passing through with her interpretations."

"Well, git," he says shortly, hardly in the mood to humor her. Has he ever been in a mood to humor her? He doesn't think so, but can't remember. He turns back to the pile of dirty dishes before him. _Crew eats like a hoard of pigs._

"Mess," she says quietly.

"Y'bet yer ass it's a mess," he mutters, reaching for another plate.

She shakes her head, even if he isn't looking. "In his head," she elaborates, "Dark clouds and rain storms. They aren't letting up. Clouding. Confusions."

He slowly sets the plate aside, and when he turns around again, his face is hard and angry. "_Girl_," he seethes quietly, "I ain't a tolerant type, and if you stand there and keep Readin' me, yeh'll get a lick o' my temper, and yeh don't want that. _Git._"

She looks at him with those solemn eyes, and he fleetingly wonders if the crew would still find her so capable if he leaves her in a bloody mess in the kitchen. No sooner does the thought enter his head does she smile mirthlessly.

"The family has reached a conclusion that he is not attached to."

It takes him a second or two to catch her meaning, and when he understands, he shows it with a small jerk of his head.

"Why?" she inquires.

He thinks for a little while. "Y'saved our asses once, moonbrain. Don't make you some kind'a hero. Makes yeh somethin' to be cautious round. Cap'n 'n the others think yer some kind'a shiny medal. I ain't buying it. Yer a weapon. Can't be trusted."

She rocks on the balls of her feet, bare as usual. His words are harsh, but her face is serene still.

He stares at her, unsettled by her unspoiled composure.

She gazes back at him, and at length, breaks the silence. "She is not angry with him."

The tables turn, and he is the one to question this time. "Why not?"

"She cannot be angry when presented with reasonable facts. Can only accept the truths. Girl is a weapon, can't be trusted. She understands his trepidation." She smiles at him, as if to comfort him, and his temper flares again.

"I ain't _scared_, girl," he snaps, on the defensive.

She has already turned, bare feet carrying her tiny frame away as she nods. "She knows. He too is a weapon. Can't be trusted." She turns briefly and suggests, in a thoughtful, spoken-to-self sort of way, "Birds of a feather?" When she receives no response from him, she merely shakes her head a little, and slips away.

He stares after her.

_He too is a weapon._

Reviews are shiny! I'm not sure if this will remain a one-shot, or if I'll follow it up and end it as a two-shot just yet.


	2. Birds of a Feather

Disclaimer: Still don't own it.

Author's Notes: Thanks for the reviews, guys! It's nice to know that my ideas are at the very least plausible to the readers. :D Last time I had some layout difficulties, so I'm crossing my fingers that this time all the right formats upload properly.

* * *

It's been a few days since his last encounter with the girl-weapon by her lonesome, and he's been doing some thinking since then. Well, as much thinking as a big merc can do. There is always some odd job around the cargo bay, or the engine room, (or anywhere on the ship) which the Cap'n sees fit for him to do.

Odd as it sounds, it isn't easy for him to find many moments to himself. For such a small craft and small crew, Serenity sure does bustle with life.

In one of those rare moments of solitude, where it's too late into the night for anyone to need him; he's shut himself down in his bunk (made sure he locked the door and all), and is doing some serious thinking.

Vera's lying on the bed beside him, glinting dully in the dim lights hanging around the ceiling. He casts an expert eye over her sleek, intricate design, and feels a fondness stirring in the pit of his stomach.

Vera's dependable. Hell, all guns are dependable. In the right hands, they're little machines of death and destruction, and there isn't anything quite like the knowledge that in your hands, you're holding bullets with names on them.

His eyes, dark blue and turbulent these days, cloud over, and his smile is gone. _Guns are dependable, not girls._

Not girl-weapons, even if they never run out of ammo, even if they never miss.

He runs a calloused hand over his face, fingers rubbing thoughtfully at the stubble along his jaw.

He's an expert about weapons. Sure he is. Not a soul in the 'verse as knowledgeable about weapons and the like as he is. Those who are sure aren't as knowledgeable when it comes to _applying_ that knowledge, though. He isn't just a merc; he's a gorramn weapon himself.

That's what she meant, wasn't it? Both of them; both of them are weapons in their own separate ways.

She sways and twirls and deals death from fluttering hands and pointed feet; he's heavy fists and steel muscles, keeping death in lead form, tucked into straps and holsters.

Both weapons.

How, then, does that make him any more trustworthy than she?

Scowling, he puts Vera away and draws the sheets over his gun rack; somehow, the sight of those familiar pistols only seem to mock him in his moment of realization.

The room is suddenly suffocating and he hastily leaves, seeking the open atmosphere of the cargo bay.

He's instinctively quiet, treading softly along the metal grates; he's a trained tracker. Can't help feeling like he needs to be quiet when it's this dark and silent. Don't want to disturb the silence in any way.

The cargo bay isn't empty, however. He walks in, and in the middle of the dusty floor lies the girl-weapon (it's become his name for her, even if he isn't aware of it yet).

He pauses delicately, feeling somewhat exasperated as opposed to surprise. Of course she'd be here. Why wouldn't she be here? It's too much to expect her to sleep in normal bed. He's only mildly disappointed in her predictability. He would've imagined her curled up somewhere much less easily explained – inside one of the vents, maybe, or perched on top of the damned engine.

He rubs his neck, and approaches.

The girl-weapon rolls over to face him, owlish eyes fixed on his features. She's wearing pitifully little: one of her sleeveless dresses that don't fit quite properly, like they belonged to an older sister, except she didn't have an older sister. Her feet are bare again.

She looks oddly comfortable, as if she'd been there for a while.

He crouches slowly beside her, and looks down at her, a small furrow in his brow.

She speaks before he can gather his thoughts. "Clouds are gone."

"Might be," he replies evenly. A brief silence, and then, "Been thinkin'." She nods, encouraging him with her unchanged, passive expression. "Y'said we were both weapons. Reckon that's about the only thing y'ever said to me that weren't so crazy."

"Comprehension from others is pleasant to behold," she says quietly.

"Reckon that don't make me all that trustworthy either," he continues, watching her carefully.

"His misdeed is in the past. Ought to let go of things that are no longer _present_."

He stares at his hands for a little while, and he knows they're thinking about Ariel.

She sits up to face him properly, but her eyes are downcast and her little hands are pressing lightly against the sides of her head. "White walls, pristine. All locks and bolts, can't lock them out, don't want them in."

"Ain't nobody comin' in here what we don't want." He grows uncomfortable, and looks away.

The girl-weapon tilts her head curiously, hands falling to rest in her lap. "He hasn't let go."

"Come 'gain?"

"Still holding onto guilty memories, can't be paid away by bushels of apples."

Uncomfortable feelings curled in on themselves; put on the spot, he grows resentful, annoyed, and then angry. "Told you to quit Readin' me, crazy, y'got a death wish or somethin'?"

He stands abruptly, and thuds out of the bay, fists clenched, only to find that she's twirled to her feet and is following him placidly.

"Both weapons," she explains patiently, when he turns around irritably to fix her a glare, "Ought to be placed away until such occasions arise in which weapons are needed."

He stares for a while, decides he doesn't want to ask, and lumbers back to his bunk. Only trouble is that she's still following him, like his own little shadow, or puppy. He's always wanted a puppy, but not the creepifyin' human-girl-weapon kind. One hand on the door-ladder to his bunk, he stops her in her tracks with a thick finger pointed in her face.

"Go to sleep, crazy," he says, voice low and menacing, "In yer own bed, mind. "

She blinks at him, and then concedes, turning on her toes to flit away. "Sulfur, potassium nitrate, charcoal; specific post-transition metal. Error will not recur."

Against his better judgment, he whispers after her, "What're yeh on about, crazy?"

She sways to a stop, and mimics his whisper, "Mustn't mix colors and whites." She nods emphatically, and floats away on feet that don't seem to even touch the floor.

He's left staring after her again, no more enlightened than he was a minute ago.

* * *

I think this is turning out to be a little more than a two part drabble. So much for that! Stay with me, please? I hope to pick up the pace within the next few chapters and really delve into their, er, budding relationship. As always, reviews are so darn shiny.


	3. Talk

Disclaimer: Rub it in, rub it in. :C

Author's Notes: I just re-discovered the ability to respond to reviews – needless to say, I've been away from for far too long, and I am also an oblivious derp sometimes. Thanks for sticking with me, and if you're new to the story, welcome to the herd.

* * *

She stares out the glass window. She's on the bridge, sitting in her pilot's chair, feet tucked under her. It's silent out in the Black, but not soundless. She tilts her head and listens to the stars and planets and the emptiness, and all of them whisper, whisper, whisper to her.

She doesn't have a lot of time to sit and listen. The Black is drowned out by the life that reverberates within Serenity. Simon-brother and Kaylee-flower fill the ship with warmth and colors (rich purple, royal blue, gold, orange, and swirls of pink), and their laughter, even the quiet ones, sound like tinkling bells on a summer breeze.

She doesn't remember what a summer breeze feels like, but thinks it sounds appropriate.

Papa-captain is earth tones. Solid. Comfortable. He and Warrior Woman are both earth tones, although of late, Warrior Woman is cloaked in muted, velvety tones – pale tints of cream and flashes of green and blue; a vague Hawaiian shirt of mournful memories.

She gently presses her hands against her ears, eyes fluttering shut as she tries to concentrate. Push the others out of her mind, learn to control the Reading; Papa-captain doesn't like it when she Reads, but she doesn't know how to tether it just yet.

Rustle of silks. Regal, arched neck, framed in thick dark curls that spill from a proud head. The girl-weapon Sees, not sees, the Companion cross the shuttle, and feels the colors flood the bridge.

The Companion is gold. Dark gold, and rich reds; on top of it all, a layer of pearly hues, spices, and fragrance. Underneath, it's all pulsing purples and dark bruise-like patterns. The girl doesn't understand it. It hurts her head.

Not-A-Girl-Jayne, though, has colors that soothe her. He's a hunk of orange, heavy orange, solid, solid orange. Sometimes it's mixed with yellow, and other times it goes blood-orange-red, but it changes very little. It's a simple blend of colors, because he's a simple man with simple wants and needs.

She likes simple, contrarily enough. She likes simple things, because simple things don't muddle up her brain. Too many ingredients in the pot, spoils the meal. Less is more. Less is good.

She sets the ship on a straight course, and leaves the bridge, looking for simplicity. Simply looking for simplicity. Simple.

She finds simple sitting in the kitchen, rubbing a blade against a whetstone; idyllically pulls out a chair, and sits beside him.

"Simple," she says.

He quirks a brow at her, but doesn't think of her comment as anything too drastic. He angles the blade just so, and hones its edge.

"_Simple_," she sighs again, crosses her arms on the table, and lies her head down.

He glances at her again, and she's staring at him with those big empty glassy eyes, and he wrinkles his nose uncomfortably. "Ain't yeh got summat else stare at, moony?"

"She requires simplicity, and he is readily available."

"Reckon I already talked 'bout how I don't take too kindly to yer insults, moony." He glowers at her for a while, and tilts his blade slightly to catch the light in the room. "_Bu yao zai shuo ben hua, dong ma, xiao feng zi?_"

Before he can stop her, she reaches out swiftly and dances her hand along the edge of the blade, and then just as quickly draws it back, inspecting the cut on her fingers that is beginning to blossom blood.

He nearly yelps, so startled by this. He slams the knife down on the table, and grabs her hand, hissing at her, "Gorramn psychic genius and yeh can't even go ten minutes without puttin' yerself in some kind'a ruttin' harm's way, _have – you – lost – it – completely?_"

She stares at her captured hand with large (larger than usual; he thinks she might be widening her eyes, but with eyes so wide to begin with, it's hard to tell) eyes, and then slowly looks up at him. She don't seem to be doing much for her own hand, so he scrambles for some napkins, all the while throwing worried glances around at the two entrances to the kitchen.

"Quid pro quo," she whispers, while he presses a wad of tissues against her hand and ignores her babbling.

He doesn't want anyone walking in on this scene. Big ol' merc, with a big ol' knife and a bleeding girl; that don't add up right, and a body doesn't need a genius brain to falsely implicate him for this.

He's got enough strikes against him, and in a flurry of panic, he tugs her to her feet. In one swift movement, he's shoved his blade back into its sheath by his calf, kicked some chairs out of his way, and is halfway out of the kitchen with a bleeding girl-weapon in tow.

He nearly tramples Kaylee as he steps out of the kitchen, and only by stepping back (so quickly that he had to then perform an awkward pirouette not to trample the _other_ girl behind him) does he avoid having a second injured girl on his hands.

"Whoa, Jayne, I don't think I ever seen you hightailin' out of the kitchen this fast, of all places," Kaylee comments, side-stepping him. She catches sight of the girl-weapon and smiles, "Hey, River," and then sees the big mercenary clutching her hand, and her smile falters a moment, but then it's back on her face, and it's brighter than ever.

Worried, embarrassed, and a great many other emotions all twisting and riddling into him, he only shakes his head and lopes out of the kitchen. The girl-weapon is tugged along, expression mild as she smiles absently at Kaylee.

The mechanic reaches for a protein pack, positively beaming now. Couldn't get any shinier than that, could it? Like a pair of buttons, those two. Make a real good match, now that she thinks on it. Pair of shiny buttons.

He encounters no one else as he hurries the girl along to his bunk, and thanks whatever is living up there in them skies for his good luck. Kaylee weren't some tattle-tale.

When they're inside and he's locked the door, he finally breathes a sigh of relief and relaxes visibly.

"Sit yer ass down, crazy, and hold out them hands."

She sits, perching on the edge of his bed and darting nervous looks behind her, as if worried she'll be eaten by monsters if she dares to take up too much room. Obediently, she holds out both hands, and the bloodied lump of tissues, which her hand had crushed during their jog, falls to the floor.

"Mixing colors," she says suddenly, looking a little miserable, "Colors will leak."

"Shut it," he responds absently. He digs out some antibacterial wipes and some bandages; sits himself down beside her, pulls her injured hand closer, and sets to work cleaning and binding up her hand.

She watches him quietly. Watches those eyes, usually cast anywhere but towards her, fixed on her hand. Hand is red. Eyes are blue. Oceans wash blood away. She smiles tentatively, and repeats, "Quid pro quo. Blood for blood." With her free hand, she brushes the air across his chest, but doesn't touch him. Don't want to disturb all the serene orange and gold. Colors.

He lifts a hand and rubs his chest absently, rubs the spot where she'd once taken a kitchen knife to him. "Hell, long forgotten, crazy," he says grudgingly. "Least y'didn't try t'sell me or anythin'." He looks down at the pale little hand lying in his much larger palm. Before that day, he'd never tried to sell out a child.

She's still smiling. Small smile, but it's there. "No tales of bitterness," she says softly, experimentally flexing her bandaged fingers, "It will ruin the sugar."

He realizes he hasn't let go of her hand yet, and awkwardly does so now, choosing to cross his arms instead (he doesn't know what else to do with them). "I ain't sweet, if that's yer angle."

"Contrariwise," she responds in mild surprise, lifting her hurt hand pointedly, "It was very kind of him – to do this" – gesturing with her hand – "for the girl. Syrupy. Sticky sweet."

_Buzz, buzz._

He rubs the back of his neck, mollified by her generosity. Perhaps it's that, or that she is being quite tolerable, but he feels no immediate urge to boot her skinny ass out of his room.

Well, it isn't so skinny anymore. He can easily admit that she's grown up a little. Girl's turning eighteen soon, isn't she? Or is she already eighteen, and turning nineteen? He doesn't know. Can't even keep track of his own birthday most years, let alone birthdays belonging to someone he'd spent the better part of the last year or so trying to get rid of.

He glances up at her; she's got her eyes closed, head is kind of tilted, like she's dozing off or something. He waits a second, and then true to his own self, he slowly leans over and attempts to inspect the shape of her butt while she's not paying attention.

What? Can't a man be a man in his own room?

"Jayne Cobb," she says clearly, and he jumps, jerking away. She opens her eyes. "Staring."

He doesn't stammer, even if he's caught in the act. "It's _my_ bunk," he says defensively, "'Sides, y'should be flattered, means y'got something worth takin' a peek at."

She smiles a little, again. "Appreciate?"

"Damn right y'ought to appreciate bein' stared at."

"He misunderstands," she frowns, "Does _he_ appreciate the product for viewing?"

_Product?_ His eyes widen a little in surprise. "Y'ain't a _thing_, moonbrain."

"_Weapons_ are _things._ Choice of wording is irrelevant, but amends will be made to encourage an answer. Does he appreciate the non-product?"

He wonders if it'll be safer to be honest, or to lie, and then decides hell with it. "Y'got a nice ass for a Core girl," he says gruffly.

She considers his words for a little while, and then smiles again, and third time's the charm, because this time, it's a real nice smile, not just a little twitch of the corners of the lips.

Bathed in the gentle glow of his lamps, not kicking or screaming or crying, he thinks she looks pretty normal.

She looks at him, and ventures another question, "Is… is she still just a weapon?"

He leans back thoughtfully. "Yeah, but with a ruttin' nice arse."

The girl-weapon-with-a-nice-arse feels a tremor of delight run down her spine. The hulking beast is bandying light words of cheeriness with her. The wolf doesn't mind the little lamb's bumbling steps around him. Run, run, river water, _splish_ and _splosh_ beside the big heavy boulder.

_Splish_ _splosh_ _splash_. _Ker-plunk_ went the little green frog.

She is not just a weapon; she is a weapon-with-a-nice-arse. This is most assuredly better than just-a-weapon. No one wants to be just-an-anything.

"Jayne has a nice _arse_ too," she shares with the big mercenary, mimicking his accent. Sharing time, must share stories to make it fair. Can't withhold stories in a story circle.

The man peers at her, looking all kinds of pleased. "Ain't that the truth, moonbrain." A pause, and then, in a voice of suppressed surprise, "Been checkin' it out?"

She gives him a blank look, but he doesn't mind very much. He's just had his muscular butt complimented; nothing like a little boost to the man-ego to get a man's spirits up.

It's odd, too, but he doesn't mind her company. Not now, not when she's being pleasantly quiet and full of compliments, and not being kidnapped by hill folks and therefore troubling him to hang out of a spaceship and aim guns at people's heads.

When she isn't being troublesome (like right now), she's not a bad kid to hang around. He suspects that she might feel the same way, since she's now taken to peering around his bunk with interest, and is even bold enough to draw back the curtain to his gun rack and gaze at some of his finest.

He doesn't say anything, but wordlessly allows her to take down some of the guns and inspect them. She looks at one, places it to the side, and takes down another, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. He's about to start telling her the story about how he got that particular beauty that she's now touching gently, when she suddenly freezes.

"Simon-brother is searching," she says suddenly, and then offers him a rueful smile. "Mustn't let Marian keep company with Robin. Rapunzel has precisely two minutes and forty-three seconds to return to her tower."

He blinks. Marian? Robin? Friends of hers from school? He doesn't quite understand why she's talking all weird again, but he gets the gist of things. When she beckons him with a hand to help her unlock his door, he complies with a sigh, and then quick as a rabbit, she's scampered out of his room (whispering a "thank you" again).

He has no desire to be caught by Simon and interrogated about whether he's seen the girl-weapon running around, so he doesn't go after her, but remains in his room with an odd feeling beginning to settle in his stomach.

It's only when he's done putting all the bandages and wipes away, and cleared off the guns lying on his bed, that he looks around the room and realizes it's loneliness.

* * *

_"Bu yao zai shuo ben hua, dong ma, xiao feng zi" - _"Don't talk stupid, understand, little crazy one?"

Baby steps, baby steps! Can't rush these things, y'know. Forgive my pinying, incidentally. I speak Mandarin fluently, but pinying messes me up sometimes. Reviews are shiny, as always!


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